


Between Tears and Raindrops

by sherlocks_bedsheets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Dark, Depressed John, Depression, Feels, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt John Watson, John Commits Suicide, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Romeo and Juliet References, Self-Harm, Self-Harming John, Sherlock Commits Suicide, Sherlock Loves John, Suicidal John, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocks_bedsheets/pseuds/sherlocks_bedsheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to 221b Baker Street after the Fall, expecting a heroes welcome. He intends to tell John how he feels after 3 years of tense anticipation, but instead finds everything he fought so hard for in ruins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Tears and Raindrops

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING ~ SUICIDE AND SELF HARM

Cold. 

The flat was so dreadfully, unusually cold. True, in the past John was known for layering those godawful jumpers (which he secretly loved) before turning the heating on but this - this was unusual for John. But then again, habits change, especially in 3 years. 

Everything was different but the same. John's chair was gone, and only Sherlock's old armchair remained in the centre of the living room. His old experiment write-ups and papers were still scattered about, bit some seemed well read and dog-eared where someone (presumably John) had leafed through them. On closer inspection, the paper was worn and ink was smudged slightly, indicating someone had traced the words and left oils behind. The very thought of John sat there in his chair, tracing his words and thinking of him send a mixture of guilt and pleasure through him, warming him through and sending cold shivers down his back. Sherlock placed the papers down on the arm of the chair. Looking around, it was all very much the same as when he left, but it all just seemed so... different. Wrong. 

Now he was over the initial blind relief of being home, he could see. The flat was uncared for. Mugs of half empty tea littered the kitchen, plates presumably days old left unwashed in the sink and it was deathly quiet. Sherlock had learned that there were many different types of silence. There was the comfortable, enjoyable silence of companionship that he and John had often shared. There was the uncomfortable silence after he had made a deduction about somebody's personal life and inadvertently exposed secrets, lies, scandals, affairs. There was the hateful silence, like when he gave Mycroft the cold shoulder. And then there was the crime scene silence: cold and sombre, an air of unspoken wrongness and injustice, which almost matched the mood of 221b.

His senses never steered him wrong. His hair prickled and his pulse increased as he walked through the hall and into his bedroom. To his surprise, there was a small John-shaped indent on the military made bed. Evidently, John didn't sleep in Sherlock's bed, just on it. His mind raced to come to a conclusion as to why John would do that,why John would want to sleep in Sherlock's room. Sentiment? Regret? Pining? It almost seemed to much to hope that it was because John cared about him. Aside from that, nothing had changed, not even a change of bedding. Definitely sentiment. 

Stepping back out into the hall, he noticed that the bathroom light was illuminating a narrow strip onto the floor. John. He sucked in a breathe and composed his racing mind. That was it, then. The moment that he had anticipated for 3 long years, the moment that kept him going when he thought he couldn't carry on any longer, there it was: the moment he could finally hold John close and whisper the three words he had almost died just to say to John. Sherlock's body was betraying him, he was sweating, shaking, breathing unsteadily. He could feel his heart beating in his throat when he slowly pushed open the door.

 

The overwhelming scent of copper hit him before anything else. It was the undeniable smell of blood, thick and clouding the air. Sherlock couldn't look up, his eyes were glued to the floor. Little bright pills and an assortment of bottles and packets scattered across the floor like a cascade of medicinal rainbows. Sherlock's brain stopped, he couldn't think straight, couldn't process what was happening. He felt sick, light headed and the rational part of his mind told him he was going to go into shock and disassociate himself from the situation. With a shaking hand that he couldn't feel, he pulled back the shower curtain to reveal a pale, skinny body covered in cuts and scars from wrist to ankle in a deep, blood-red bath. It didn't look like John, his cheeks were sallow, his skin paper white and his eyes that were still open were dull and unfeeling, unlike the incandescent blue oceans John held trapped in his irises that Sherlock held close in his memories. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bath. From the heel of John's hands to above his elbows, there were two vertical, deep, almost surgical cuts that had drained the life out of him. On the tiles above him, evidently written in blood, were the words 'For SH'.

It could have been minutes, or hours or days before Sherlock returned to himself. When he came out of his trance, he found himself fully clothed and lying in the blood bath with John's lifeless body. Emotions hit him like a bullet and ripped through him, tears and anger and hopelessness and rage coursed in his veins. Guilt consumed his mind as he realised that John died scared, alone and in pain because he simply couldn't wait for Sherlock any longer. Tears poured freely as Sherlock whimpered in the cold water and clung onto John's skinny chest. Screams ripped through him as he squeezed and grabbed and clung onto John like a lifeline. He could feel each of John's ribs against him as he sobbed into John's lifeless corpse. As he lay there, he kissed John's body: his chest, his neck, his wrists, his scars, his lips whilst chanting his mantra of apologies and regrets. He tried to hold John's hand, but found that John had died clinging desperately onto the blade that took his life. He made up his mind. 

Every cut freed him. Every slice liberated him. The feeling of his blood pouring from his veins and mixing with John's in the icy water soothed Sherlock as he grew heavier and heavier with defeat. 

Clinging onto John's cold body, Sherlock finally shut his eyes and became peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering making an alternative ending because there is a slightly different road I wanted to go down, but because I'm indecisive and problematic, I couldn't just have one ending (well... Variation of the same ending) so stay tuned for that.


End file.
